


That which is Forgotten

by darkling59



Series: Annals of the Incomplete [26]
Category: Alien: Resurrection (1997)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-17 23:19:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3547484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkling59/pseuds/darkling59
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The military tries to repeat the experiments from the Auriga using cell samples preserved off-site. After all, their scientists managed to clone Ripley and her Queen from just a few cells...how difficult can it be to do so from considerably more material?</p><p>Predictably, the escaped Ripley 8 and her robot friend do not take kindly to this idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That which is Forgotten

Ripley strode through the dirty space station, confused and nervous but unable to stop a small kernel of hope from making a home in her chest. It was possible, even probable that she’d be getting her answers soon. But would they be answers she wanted? And how much would her mysterious source tell her? The message she’d gotten had simply said ‘answers’, not how many or to what questions.

And boy did she have questions.

What had happened on Fiorina 161? Where had she woken up? Why had she been there? Had she been in cryo again? How much time had passed? Why was the military so interested in her? What did the tattoo on her arm mean and who had put it there? Why couldn’t she remember what happened in the video clip her source sent to her? And, perhaps most important, what was the long scar on her chest from?

A few of the questions she could answer partially or speculate on based on what she knew, but ‘what she knew’ encompassed very little.

She knew she had woken up in a strange, small white room two and a half weeks ago with a strange tattoo on her arm - a black number '9'.

She knew her last memories were of fighting an alien on the prison planet of Fiorina 161.

She knew doctors had come in to check on her at least once every six hours; they always called her Ripley and seemed interested in her questions but never gave her answers. The doctors were probably with the military, based on the precise way they handled themselves and the military issue clothing.

She knew she was treated respectfully but confined to her room because of what the doctors called her ‘affliction’…something she had no knowledge about. The doctors treated her like a highly unstable and possibly dangerous child. The room itself looked like a cross between a hospital room, a ward at an insane asylum, and a prison cell: there were bright lights, padded walls, and an obvious lack of sharp edges but there was furniture and everything she needed to live comfortably was provided.

Honestly, for a few days at least, she’d been grateful for the non-threatening surroundings because they calmed her nerves, which always seemed to be on edge for some reason, and the brightness drove away the strange not-nightmares she’d been experiencing since awakening.

She could not count her nightmares as 'known information' because she did not know what to make of them; in her waking moments they made no sense but inspired strange feelings of both revulsion and longing, of creche and pack, of killing and devouring, of _belonging_.

Up until a week ago, that was all she’d known.

* * *

Eventually, the not-nightmares became less common and less pronounced; when she slept, it felt like someone was protecting her, holding the strangeness at bay. Her waking hours became more important and coherent as she tried to slip into familiar mannerisms. When the doctors came to talk to her a day or so after her first truly undisturbed rest, about a week ago, she told them whatever she’d been sick with was gone, she felt fine.

Their reaction was perhaps the most worrying thing she’d seen since arriving. They’d stopped dead and stared at her, then the leader came forward cautiously and told her that wasn’t possible. The tests they performed that day were far more extensive and painful then any they’d run before and when she protested, she was told it was for her own good.

No sedatives, no explanations.

She did not try to talk to them about her condition again.

It was several days later, perhaps a week and a half after her first awakening, that Ripley got her first message from the Source. There was a computer in her room but it needed a password that she didn’t have and was afraid to ask for; she’d tried everything she could think of but she knew it was futile since most possibilities were case sensitive strings of random numbers and letters and she didn’t even know how long it should be. That day, she’d been guessing random combinations as usual when the screen suddenly went blank. Not blue-screen, crash the computer blank or black-screen, malfunction blank but a strange flickering grey with no words or technical information. A few minutes later, words appeared on the screen, all at once rather than letter by letter: **Who are you?**

Startled, Ripley backed away and simply stared at the screen for several minutes but the message did not change. Cautiously, she moved forward and entered her answer, deciding to be vague just in case the other typist was not friendly: **Ellen Ripley**.

The screen went blank.

She nearly swore before remembering there were most likely monitoring devices watching her and she did not want the computer taken away.

It wasn’t until the doctors came and went twice, about twelve hours, that the Source returned. Ripley was alerted to its, for lack of a better word, ‘presence’ when the screen once again turned grey. This time the message was different: **Where are you?**

The captive woman scowled slightly, hoping the truth would be okay: **I don’t know.**

She waited, fully expecting the screen to go back to the login page as it had last time but instead, the old message disappeared and a new one showed up: **Why?**

“That’s a good question.” She muttered. “I’d like to know the answer too.” What she typed was: **I don’t know. Do you?**

**No. Why don’t you know?**

**I don’t remember.**

**Why?**

Ripley frowned and rolled her eyes, annoyed. Well, at least the source was a person. No machine would be so obscure.

**I don’t remember that either.**

The next response took a long time and for several moments Ripley was afraid she’d driven her contact away. When the words did show up, they seemed to do so reluctantly.

**Do you have a tattoo on your left forearm?**

Ripley felt like she’d been drenched in ice water and sat frozen at the computer. How could it know that? For the first time, she began to hope she might be able to get some answers out of the person on the other end. Maybe this was someone in charge? Probably not, but it might at least be someone capable of helping her get out of her room. She decided to tell the truth.

**Yes.**

**Do you know how you got it?**

Not ‘how did you get it’ or ‘who gave it to you’...it sounded like the Source believed it already knew the answer.

**No.**

**What is your name?**

Ripley’s brow furrowed in surprise and uncertainty. Didn’t it already ask me that?

**Ellen Ripley.**

**Your full name?**

Oh, right. It was strange, come to think of it, that no one else had asked her that since her awakening. They hadn’t even asked her name; Ripley was her automatic title. Food for thought…

**Ellen Ripley, Lieutenant first class, number 36706**

The screen went back to the login page.

“No!” She was so surprised and dismayed that she forgot herself for a moment and spoke out loud. Had she said something wrong? Was there ANOTHER Ellen Ripley in this same situation, one with a different number or rank, which the source had been looking for?

She sat staring at the computer, willing it to change back to the grey screen, until the doctors showed up. They did not seem surprised to see her there, or angry.

After the routine battery of tests, Ripley sat on the bed and watched the computer across the room, not willing to face defeat by going over and sitting down to try again. For some reason, the Source’s sudden departure felt like a dismissal, something it wouldn’t return from.

She turned away for a moment, and then looked back. And sat straight up in surprise. The screen had changed!

A burst of hope drove her across the room to the keyboard where she waited for a new message.

Nothing happened.

Surprised by the change in routine, she attempted to start with a question of her own. **Why did you want to know my rank and number?**

Nothing happened.

**Hello, are you there?**

Still nothing.

Perplexed, Ripley stared at the keyboard. Did she need a password or something? The person was obviously there, otherwise the screen wouldn’t have changed, but what were they waiting for?

**Wha**

The screen blanked out before she could finish, a black square roughly six inches tall and wide showed up in its place.

While the woman was still staring in confusion, a video began to play in the square, one that drove all thoughts and questions out of her mind.

It was her.

Ellen Ripley watched herself play basketball in a large room, possibly a military mess hall if the tables and food dispensers were anything to go by. It was an eerie sensation, watching herself dribble, shoot, and run when she had no memories of the event. Then a new person entered the scene, a man in a scientist’s lab coat. A few seconds later he was followed by two guards with their weapons trained on the woman. The man called out to the video-Ripley and Ripley watched her turn and stare, a blank expression on her face that somehow made the real Ripley nervous. But the video-woman did nothing as the scientist approached and said something in a low voice. One of the guards came forward and fixed restraints around her wrists but she didn’t look at him or the other guard despite their weapons. The video kept going as the scientist stepped to the side and gestured for the bound woman to go first. After a long, tense moment in which the woman stared at him almost hungrily, she finally dropped the ball and allowed the guards to herd her out of the frame.

Then the video stopped.

**Was that you?**

So startled was she that Ripley did not realize the source was back at first. When she did, she could barely formulate a coherent response but she didn’t have to worry…the other person seemed to know exactly what was going on and as such, exactly the right thing to say.

**I think so.**

**Does she look like you?**

**Yes.**

**Do you remember that?**

**No. Are you surprised?**

So far she’d limited herself to impersonal informational questions because she didn’t want to drive the other person away but this was too important to let slide.

**No. Are you alone?**

**Yes.**

**Are you a prisoner?**

She thought long and hard about the answer to that question. No one had actually called her a captive but she wasn’t free to go.

**Yes.**

**Would you like to escape?**

She felt a jolt of hope but beat it down. This could be a trick…or a trap.

**I would rather have answers.**

**I can only give you answers in person.**

**Then yes.**

The screen went back to the login page.

Instructions would come by the next day, but it would be a week before she met the Source...and the woman in the video.

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's considered a horrible movie and one of the worst of the franchise (...or it was until the advent of AvP), but I actually really like 'Alien Resurrection'. This fic was based on the idea of Ripley meeting Ripley 8...although it never actually got that far.


End file.
